The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs, #3)

by Cate C. Wells

but I can feel him standing there on the creaky porch, barefooted, his wild, snarled hair falling out of the world’s messiest man bun.

He’s way too old for a man bun, mid-thirties at least, but he’s hot enough to carry it off.

Well, as hot as a grungy, hungover, sketchy l...

As far back as I can remember, he’s never lived with the rest of the pack, but he does come around sometimes to talk to our alpha, Kil...

He’s got a very rugged profile. His jawline is as sharp as an axe blade despite the beard threaded with gray. It’s like all his features were carved from rock—his high cheekbones, his straight nose, his proud forehead, everything except his lips. His lips look soft. My fingers itch.

I have the sudden urge to touch his mouth, and that’s so freaking weird.

I’m aware I’m being salty with my best friend, and I don’t want to be, but it’s like I went from zero to PMS in sixty seconds. Even my wolf is being weird. If I like to play princess, she’s a genuine, pure-bred grand duchess—snoot in the air and prancing—but right now, she’s growling in the back of her throat and baring her tiny, pointy teeth.

She doesn’t like Darragh Ryan on that porch. I press my open hand to my breastbone. My heart drums a beat against my palm. Oh, shit. No fucking way. This cannot be what I think it is.

Darragh Ryan is a grown-ass man. A man-sized man. And he’s all mysterious with a past and issues and a possible friends-with-benefits arrangements with a witch. I cannot h...

Fate has to be playing a joke. My aesthetic is delicate, sweet, romantic, cottagecore. His aesthetic is—the pants I wore all last week are fine. No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Haircuts are for the weak. I kill things with my bare hands in human form. I’ve been through hell and seen the other side.

And for an older guy, he is freaking hot as shit. Ignore the hair and beard, the rough hands, and the wolfishness. His eyes are amazing, dark brown ringed with copper and gold, and they crinkle at the corners, like he’s spent a lot of time in the glaring sun.

Is he ignoring me on purpose? Does he feel it, too? The strange gathering, seeking sensation under his breastbone?

He might be pretending I’m not right here, but he’s not bailing, and he definitely has the look of an animal about to bolt, albeit a dangerous, terrifying, muscle-bound apex predator even bigger than a wolf.

I clear my throat. Annie leans forward. Kennedy tilts her head. On the porch, Darragh’s muscles clench impossibly tighter as if he’s bracing himself. They all wait for me to say something. I don’t know any words. They’ve all vanished from my memory, and even if I knew any, my throat is squeezing shut.

Darragh’s beautiful, brown and gold, albeit bloodshot, eyes drill into mine, and I’m struck with a bolt as sudden and shocking as the late summer lightning that burns the air and sears black spots across your field of vision. My lungs seize mid-inhale. I stop breathing oxygen, my body continuing to pump blood on sheer adrenaline.

My wolf howls with excitement and launches herself at the border between us. I stumble. The front door of Abertha’s cottage creaks. Annie...

I squeeze every muscle in my body, clutch my arms against my chest, trying with all my might to hold her in, to stop myself from combusting into a wolf gone completely mad with jealousy. Girlfriend does not care that there’s no sex in the air. She wants witch’s blood. While I’m literally holding myself together, Darragh Ryan raises his eyes to the distance again, furrows his brow, grunts unintelligibly, and without a backwards glance, strides off across the clearing, past the bee yard, and disappears into the woods.

Did Darragh really have to bail like that? I get that it came out of nowhere, and I needed to process, too, but aren’t males supposed to take charge in these situations, especially older males?

The only difference is that sometime between then and now, he combed and cut his hair. He definitely didn’t have Cheryl do it. It looks like he did it himself.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, his muscles somehow tensing even tighter. My wolf noses his calf and nips at the denim. And then, on an exhale, he lets himself go “at ease” and sinks into a crouch, awkwardly offering her a loose fist to sniff. She yips with delight, snuffling his hand, licking his knuckles, and then she straight up rolls onto her back. Legs splayed. Tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Oh dear God. She’s asking for belly rubs. He looks like he might bolt at any second, like this is the strangest interaction he’s ever had and he’s never seen a bitch on her back before, and my wolf is wriggling in the dirt, batting his hand with her snout in the direction of her smooth white belly. He sighs and the corners of his lips curve the slightest bit.

“Time to go inside, princess,” he says. His deep voice is rusty. From lack of use or is he still hungover?

He scoops my wolf up as he rises to his feet, cradling her tight to his warm, broad chest. She nuzzles her snout into the crook of his arm. Impossibly, she’s even more blissed out than when she was getting scratches.

She breathes him in, loving how she can feel his steady heartbeat against her flank. It’s such a weird feeling—like we’ve been at sea our whole life, and we’re feeling firm ground underneath our feet for the very first time.

Mates aren’t supposed to leave each other once they find each other, not until the female’s knocked up. Darragh’s walked away from me twice.

He gives a good belly rub, and somehow, his presence helped my wolf come out. That’s two points in his favor. Plus, he’s hot, he smells good, and I’m kind of into the older male thing.

And apparently, I’m into muscle.

By the dark flush on his face, Darragh’s wrestling his wolf back down,

I don’t want to get knotted for the first time in here either. There’s no door.

Regardless, he doesn’t seem to want me here at all.

I don’t like it when we’re on different frequencies like this. It makes me feel unbalanced.

Neither Darragh nor his wolf has done anything the least bit reassuring.

“Uh, you can sit on the bedroll.” I press closer against the wall. His back stiffens. “Or, uh, on the trunk.”

Darragh watches me, and the squirmy feeling grows stronger until I can’t take it anymore, so I take careful, slow steps to sit on the trunk. Darragh backs up so he remains as far from me as the shack allows.

All of a sudden, a horrible thought pops into my head. “You feel it, don’t you? That we’re mates?” Without hesitation, he jerks a sharp nod.

“I’m Mari,” I offer. “I know,” he says. His wolf’s rumbling makes his voice vibrate.

My other hand flies to press against my chest again. The bond is reaching toward him, flowing through my fingers like liquid sunshine, seeking the bond reaching for me, winding alongside it, twining, weaving together like a braid. I hold my breath. I can’t believe this is happening. My gaze darts up to meet his. I can’t read his eyes. They’re too gold, too—much.

“What is there to talk about?” Heat. Nests. Knotting. Are we going to do it here? On that bedroll? Is he going to fit? Will it hurt? What happens after? How can I have a pup? I can’t have a pup. I’ve got my own crap I can’t deal with, and honestly, it’s enough of a challenge taking care of myself.

For a second, he’s speechless. I count the creases as they appear on his brow—one, two, three. I smile encouragingly. His mouth spears down. “No,” he says, suddenly gruff. “You can’t stay.” With no further ado, he strides toward me, and I skitter out of his way. He passes me without a glance, ducking through the opening, and gestures for me to follow him.

How come no one wants me? How come I’m so expendable?

Is he seriously going to bust me for breaking the rules? Like I’m a pup, not his mate? Asshole.

“You said you would watch her,” Darragh says to Killian. My body instinctively tightens in anticipation of a fight. No one challenges the Alpha. “Can’t watch her every second,” Killian retorts. He’s not even pissed. Not at Darragh at least. He’s glowering at me. Darragh frowns at Killian’s answer.

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do then.” Killian unwinds his towel and wipes his face and sweat-soaked hair. “I can punish her.” Darragh growls so loud that three cabins away, a female lets out a startled shriek and a door slams. Killian’s wolf snarls back, and both males stand taller and face off, their shoulders broadening, muscles tautening.

I don’t even notice him take my forearm until his grip is ripped away in a whirl of flying male, unsheathing claws, and flashing fangs. There is a moment when I can’t tell Ivo, Killian, and Darragh apart—they’re a heaving mass of swinging limbs and gnashing teeth.

“Your worries are unfounded, man,”

He seems to expect a response, but I am not in the mood to “yes, sir” him. He can’t act like an elder with me. He might not want to accept it, but he’s my mate. A part of him is flowing into my chest right now. I might not be able to read it clearly, but it’s undeniably there.

“You shouldn’t have left camp,” he says. “You don’t understand what kind of threats there are outside the territory. You aren’t prepared.” I know I’m not. I’ve never been in a fight in my life, and except for when my father tried to kill me, I’ve never been in danger, either.

I feel like I should resent him talking to me like this. I’m not a pup, and I’m not dumb. I’m not resentful, though. He’s fussing, and for some reason I cannot fathom, I kind of like it.

I want to know what he’ll say. I want him to keep fussing at me. He growls in the back of his throat. Him. Not his wolf.

“Mari,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said my name. It comes out like a request. Like he wants something. I do, too. “Mari, you don’t know what’s out there,” he says again, gruff desperation edging his words. “I’m not out there. I’m here.” The need to soothe him is deep. Instinctual.

I focus on the sweet flowing bond, and in my mind, I curl my fingers around it, and with all my might, I draw it to me. Darragh squares his shoulders and firms his jaw. He comes to me. He strides between the tables, every inch an alpha, packmates bending their necks out of instinct, those hungry for rank darting him challenging glances, but only out of the corners of their eyes. Females thrust their tits up, their fingers moving to fuss with their hair.